


The Trophy

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-19 13:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: Garrett Hawke attends the Champion of Kirkwall gala held in his honor, and finds out just what strings come with being the most honored man in Kirkwall.





	1. Chapter 1

Three hours into the Champion of Kirkwall gala, and Hawke was thinking of calling it quits.

He'd managed to tear himself away from the throng of nobles now mingling at the center of the Viscount's ballroom, and had secluded himself in a quiet corner near an open balcony, where a cool breeze cooled the sweat on his brow. He turned his left side to the wall so he could clutch it without being seen.

Maker's balls, he was going to die.

Anders had warned him not to attend the gala, but the date had already been set, and with each invitation it seemed increasingly impossible to decline. So here he was, with two black eyes, a crooked nose, three partially healed ribs, a concussion, and more pulled muscles and bruises than he could count. Not to mention the scar across his side where his guts had, politely, decided not to spill out. He'd been dead tired after five minutes on the dance floor, and now he felt like he was going to expire.

What was more, he was beginning to realize just how much he didn't belong here.

It may have been an open secret around High Town that the Amells' eldest son was a mage, but rumors were a very different thing from confirmed truth. All night, the nobles had made cautious conversation and whispered behind their hands.

"An apostate Champion? Has that ever happened....?"

"I think in Tantervale-"

"Well, we're not in Tantervale."

"Is he even an apostate? He seems far too clean." 

"To think Leandra didn't tell us."

"Oh, how could you have not know, darling? A bachelor at his age?"

"It's not the only reason he's a bachelor."

Hawke coughed into his fist. What a night. Here he was, the most celebrated man in Kirkwall and an absolute pariah. He leaned against the cool wall, clutching his throbbing, aching side, and wished he was well enough to hop the balcony and make a run for the Hanged Man.

He wondered where Fenris was.

"You look unwell, my dear 'Awke."

Hawke quickly pushed off the wall. Beside him stood a chevalier with a puffed shirt and a feathered cap. The man stood close, his perfumed breath redolent of mulled wine.

"I'm sorry, I think I've lost your name," said Hawke.

"Such honesty! How refreshing." The man gave a bow. "Duke Prosper du Montfort, at your service."

"Oh, yes. I apologize." Hawke placed him now: an Orlesian nobleman who had been trying to invite him on a hunt of some kind. "It's a bit overwhelming, all the faces...."

"No need to apologize. They're a skittish bunch of guineas aren't they?" Prosper turned to survey the dance floor, where some of the women on the periphery were eyeing them over their fans. "You'd think they'd never seen a wolf before."

"I...suppose that's one way to put it. You don't seem intimidated." 

"You are hardly the most dangerous creature I've come across," said Prosper. "Not that you are a beast, of course. I simply mean that you require a level of respect they are not used to giving. Their spines lack the iron."  

"And yours doesn't?" asked Hawke.

"No," said Prosper. "It is true that you could kill me in a hundred different ways with your magic, but it would depend on you being quicker than me, and therein lies the rub. Oh, it does the court good to have a little terror in its veins. You have my thanks for that, for however long you remain in its graces."

"Sure," said Hawke, slightly dizzy. "Is there something you want, Duke?"

"Only a respite from the shuffling these Free Marchers call dancing," said Prosper. "And to inform you that I have arranged a gift to be given to you at the end of the festivities this night."

"You're too kind."

"The decision, initially, was not mine. These men and women seem to think they can repay you for saving them from the Qunari. They elected to grant you a number of shares in a number of wineries. I suggested something more...." The Duke rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "Tangible."

"A fruit basket."

The Duke chuckled. "You are delightful, but no, it is something more suited to your fangs, I think. In fact-"      

"Champion."

Hawke's blood turned to ice. It was as if a string was tugging him around, as he turned to face the Knight-Commander of the Gallows, Meredith Stannard.

"I hope I am not interrupting," she said. 

"Not at all," said Prosper. "I was just about to take my leave. I will see you at the end of the evening, 'Awke." 

And with that, the Duke waltzed off. Hawke wanted to grab his arm and beg him to stay, but he didn't, and he was left alone with Meredith's piercing blue eyes upon him. 

"You look ill," she said. She was wearing the same Templar armor she always did, with that nightmarish sword of hers that gave Hawke a bad feeling strapped to her back. Other than a glass of wine in her hand, she seemed just as out of place as he was.

"My apologies," said Hawke, not sure what he was apologizing for. "I think my guts are still deciding whether or not to fall out."

The Knight-Commander took a sip of water, never taking her eyes off him.

"You sustained quite an injury," she said.

Hawke shrugged. "It seemed a poor show to decline an invitation to my own gala, even with said injuries."

"I did not throw you this," she said, taking his meaning. "I simply bestowed the mantle upon you."

"Yes, about that. Can we speak frankly with each other?"

"Are we not already?" Meredith moved to stand closer to him in the shadow. Her hair looked very clean, and her skin very powdered. "You no longer need censure yourself in my presence, or in anyone else's for that matter."

"Maybe. But there's something that's been bothering me. I'm a mage. You're a Templar. You didn't have to make me Champion, but you did."

"The masses were clearly on your side," she said. "They wished you to have the title, and with Dumar dead, it fell to me to grant you it." 

"And if you had stormed into that keep and hundreds of Kirkwall's nobles _hadn't_ all been cheering my name, what would you have done?"

"My duty. That is all I have ever done," she said.

"You would have arrested me."

"And put you through your Harrowing immediately. Your esteemed companions would have suffered less kind fates. Those who harbor an apostate do not fare well under the law."

"You mean Aveline and Varric Tethras," he said.

"Proof goes a long way within the factions of this city," she said, sipping her wine. "If I had arrested the dwarf and the Guard Captain on based solely on my suspicions, it would have roused the city guard and the Dwarven Merchant's Guild, both of whom the Templars rely on."

"You needed to catch them red-handed, while they were fighting knowingly alongside a mage," said Hawke. 

"That was my plan," said Meredith.  

"But instead you walked in, and realized that I had the crowd."

"And still do. They love you as they do not love me."

"Even though I'm an apostate?" said Hawke. Meredith's hair smelled of lavender. It was such an unexpected feminine scent, so much like the oils his mother and Bethany used to rub into their hair, that Hawke felt a wave of sickness. "Doesn't it bother you to see me here like this, instead of locked up in the Gallows?" 

"What I feel personally doesn't matter, no more than what you feel matters. Apostate or not, you are now this city's Champion. That title means you live and die for this city, the same as myself."

She stepped close- not close enough to press him against the wall, but enough that the din of the room faded away.

"It means you will never be appreciated for your deeds. It means you will never be thanked for the lives you save, only damned for the ones you do not. It means every action you make will be judged, every mistake magnified, until they at last grow bored of you and cast you aside. It means you must keep the favor of these dancing fools, if you ever want to sleep again."

She stepped back. Hawke blinked at her, and then it hit him.

_All these people think I've beaten you, that I'm a stain on your honor, but it's the other way around. All it takes is one mistake, one faux-pas too many, and all these simpering nobles will remember just what I am and where I belong._

"I look forward to working with you, Knight-Commander," said Hawke, stiffly. "For Kirkwall."

"For Kirkwall," she agreed.

They stood together, the apostate and the Knight-Commander, while everyone pretended not to watch them.

Duke Prosper materialized in the crowd. He tinged a fork against his wine glass, and the dance floor quieted. "My dear ladies and gentlemen! Tonight, we celebrate the inestimable Garrett Hawke, your Champion of Kirkwall!"

The applause of several hundred silk gloves were surprisingly loud. Hawke raised his glass, felt his ribs complain, and lowered it again.

"As you well know, the esteemed Champion of Kirkwall cannot be given enough praise for his delightful heroics," said Prosper. "However, I have arranged a gift that might make a good start." 

He stepped aside, and two servants stepped onto the parquet dance floor, carrying a plate with a white sheet over it between them. 

"It took nearly two weeks for the beetles to do their work," said Prosper, "but I think it came out nicely."

He pulled the sheet away.

For the second time that night, ice snapped through Hawke's veins.

On a silken pillow, like a fancy paperweight, all the flesh eaten away, was the Arishok's skull.

"The heathens left it behind when they fled," said Prosper. "The gentry of Kirkwall agreed it best that their Champion should have it, as a trophy for his efforts in defending his city from the barbarian invasion."

All attention was upon him. Hawke felt them, the sea of nobles, all waiting and watching.

And loudest of all in the silence, Meredith Stannard.

Hawke stepped forward, grabbed a ridged horn, and, against the pain, held the skull aloft to the politely clapping crowd.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hawke?"

For a moment, Garrett wondered if he was dreaming. Why else would that voice be floating through his house? Why else would his dick be snapping to attention just at the sound of bare feet slapping the floorboards?

He jerked awake, spilling wine all over himself. Sure enough, a split second later Fenris walked through the door of his study.

"I did not mean to wake you," Fenris said softly. "Bodahn said that you were-"

"Wallowing, yes, that's me."

Hawke scrubbed his eyes. He must have looked a fright, but Fenris had seen him in more shameless states.

"How was the banquet?" asked Fenris.

"A delight. Did you notice my consolation prize?" 

Fenris followed his pointing finger to the Arishok's skull sitting in the armchair opposite him. He rocked back in surprise, which for Fenris was as good as a scream.

"They _gifted_ that to you?" he asked.

"Yup. Give it here, you can have his seat."

Fenris reluctantly picked up the skull and handed it to Hawke. Hawke settled the skull on his lap and poured himself another glass of wine, passing the bottle to Fenris. 

"How.....are you injuries?" asked Fenris, awkwardly.

It was the first time they had spoken to each other since the duel. When Hawke had first woken up, it had been to the clicking of Varric's knitting needles from where the dwarf sat in the armchair beside his bed. When Hawke asked if Fenris had been by to see him, Varric had rubbed his neck and said "uh yeah, he dropped by," which roughly meant, yes, Fenris was at your side the whole time; he didn't sleep; he didn't eat; and he only left when Anders assured him you wouldn't die; he made me promise not to tell you. Hawke wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at that.

It was easier just to be angry.

"Well enough," said Hawke. "My back hurts, the headache I've had for the past few weeks has yet to go away, and Anders says if I don't stop jostling my ribs, they'll fuse back together crooked. You just missed him, by the way. He was massaging my spine all morning."

Oh, that made the elf's mouth pucker, enough for Hawke to feel a little guilty.

"Did you just get off a job?" Hawke asked.

"Yes, a paltry one. It was a stakeout on the coast for some misplaced cargo," said Fenris. "It would have been better spent at home."

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, listening to the fire crackle.

"Can I ask you something?" said Hawke, softly.

"Of course," said Fenris.

_Why did you leave me? Why didn't you want me? What did I do wrong?_

"Do you think he'll come back and haunt me?" Hawke drummed his knuckles on the Arishok's skull.

"That is unlikely."

"I don't even know what the Qunari think of the afterlife, to be honest."

"They don't," said Fenris. "The soul of an individual is as inconsequential to them as the life of one."

The skull was heavy as a cannon ball. The massive rack of horns flared back around the sides of the armchair. Hawke remembered what that skull had felt like under his scratching fingers, when the giant had had him on the ground, strangling him.

"I didn't hate him, you know?" said Hawke. "He seemed so disappointed that I chose to fight him."

“It was either that or give up Isabela.”

“I know, but still.”

Hawke traced his fingers over the teeth, the gaping leaf where a nose should have been. 

Hawke had never meant the fight to last so long, but it just kept going. He had watched in horror as his staff rose slower and slower to block, as blood spattered from his cheek, his shoulder, his neck, his thighs. He'd tried to keep the Arishok as far from him as possible, keep him in a game of cat and mouse around the pillars, but the man had been smarter than that. He knew that Hawke was dead on his feet.

It had been only a matter of time until the Arishok, in frustration and pain, dropped his axes and grabbed Hawke's throat.

He would have won, if not for the knife Hawke slipped between his ribs. The Arishok had reeled off him and fallen on his back, staring at disbelief at the tiny blade sticking out of his heart. He and Hawke had spoken cordially with each other only hours before. 

"I get the feeling the Arishok wouldn't have kept my skull as a trophy," said Hawke.

"No," said Fenris. "He would not have considered your body worthy of honor or dishonor. It wouldn't have mattered to him."

"They want me to pose with the damned thing, for portraits and sculptures."

"Then don't," said Fenris. "Tell them no. You cannot simply roll over for them."

"They all know I'm an apostate now."

Fenris fell quiet at that.

"What if I don't please them, Fenris? Did you see that stack of letters when you came in? They've got themselves a new errand boy, and they couldn't be more thrilled. I have to do what they ask of me, or it'll go badly for everyone. For Aveline, and Anders, and you- everyone."

The fire crackled. Fenris set down the wine bottle and came next to him.  

"I think....." said Fenris, lifting the skull from Hawke's hands and setting it carefully on the table beside them. "It will go worse for everyone if you don't push back."

"My pride isn't worth that much."

"It should be. You will never earn their respect by playing the faithful dog." 

Maybe. To push back would mean risking everything and everyone.

But he was already risking everything. These nobles would happily turn his skull into a trophy, too, if given the chance.

"I think," he said slowly, "I want to take a walk."

"Do you wish for company?" asked Fenris. 

"Yes," said Hawke, "because you're going to carry this damned thing for me." 

 

* * *

 

The harbor was nearly deserted this late in the day. All the sailors and dockhands had retired to the taverns to drink. As such, there were few people around to hear Hawke's labored breathing as he struggled down the steep steps from Low Town. 

Fenris carried the skull for him in a bag. The elf reached to steady him more than once, but held off just before touching. They made their slow way to the abandoned Qunari compound. On the steps, Hawke sat down heavily. 

"If I die here," he panted, "tell them I was saving orphans." 

"I'll try to stretch my imagination," said Fenris. 

After a time, they made their way to the shadow of the Arishok's throne. The wooden chair had been too heavy for looters to carry, but a few had tried to set fire to it. There was smear of feces across the charred wood of its seat. Hawke hobbled past it to where the dock dropped off, abruptly, into the sea. 

"It feels a little hollow without an audience," said Hawke. 

"There are no secrets in this city," said Fenris. "Word will get out." 

Fenris lowered the bag and took out the skull. He handed it to Hawke. 

It was heavy in his hands. This skull could have been him, if not for a little knife. This skull would be him, if not for a little cleverness.

He tossed it into the waves. It sank quickly, like a stone, and disappeared into the murk. 

He felt a little more like himself already. 

"Hey! What are you two doing here?" A guard was marching across the compound. "This area is off-limits. I should- Champion Hawke?" The guard came to a halt. "Is that you?" 

"I suppose it is," said Hawke. 

"Forgive me, serah, I did not recognize you at first." The guard thumped his breast. "I'm sorry, but you can't be here. Guard-Captain's orders."

"We were just leaving," said Hawke.

The guard nodded, then hesitated. "What were you two doing here?"  

Hawke glanced at Fenris. The elf met his eyes, waiting.

"Giving the Arishok a funeral," said Hawke. "What else would we be doing?" 

The two of them left the compound by the same gate. It was a much harder trek uphill. Fenris, this time, lent a hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first fics I wrote for this fandom, way back in 2013. It was complete enough for me to feel like it should see the light of day, even though I'm not completely happy with it.


End file.
